


EQUILIBRIUM

by goddcoward



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Transformation, Confusion and Delay, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Jealousy, Just Add Kittens, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Moving In Together, Mpreg, No Actual Cheating, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddcoward/pseuds/goddcoward
Summary: a collection of alternate universes featuring madara and tobirama and the relationship they share throughout.individual stories will have different ratings. no sex in every single verse. sorry folks i'm just not that horny





	1. no other version of me, I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sharked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharked/gifts).

> yall fucking THOUGHT i might be done with the new works in progress, Fools That You Are. im always ready to make more madatobi nonsense and this should condense all my stuff so that i dont end up with a million one-shots that don't get any love
> 
> thanks to sharked for consistently leaving such lovely comments on my fics they really make my day!!

The soft tick-click of the clock is deafening in the silence that subsumes their home, so cold and empty and lonely without Madara there to light it up with his warmth and his passion and his lack of volume control. 

The inarizushi is meticulously prepared, but no amount of effort can stop the hands of time, and it’s cooling, congealing. It will keep well if Tobirama gets it to the fridge in time, will probably still be okay even if he doesn’t, but he hasn’t so much as touched the portion that sits perfect on his plate. 

He stares at the other plate, Madara’s plate, also undisturbed, because Madara is not here to shovel it in his mouth with his typical lack of grace. Undisturbed, because Madara is still at work, even though he’d promised he’d be home over half an hour ago as compensation for all the times that he’s left Tobirama wanting in the past. Undisturbed, because he’s with _Hashirama._

Tobirama loves his anija with his whole heart. He really does.

If it so happens that his anija is at his happiest with Tobirama’s boyfriend, he will support them with everything he has. 

(Beneath the table, his hands tighten around the little velvet-coated box. He’d spent weeks and tens of thousands of yen making sure it was just right, just perfect, just as it was supposed to be, because that is simply how he does things.

Well. And because it’s for _Madara,_ who deserves nothing less than the very best.)

He tucks the ring box back into his suit pocket and stands, tapping his fingers restlessly against the back of his chair as he twists around to look at the old grandfather clock on the wall behind him. It has not changed in the twelve seconds since he last checked the time, and it will not change for another forty-eight seconds.

Just to be sure, he unlocks his phone, too, and sure enough, it’s still 6:38.

Madara had said that morning that he’d be home by 5:45 at the absolute latest. He’d said it that morning, and the night before, and the day before that, and two weeks ago, and then again when the idea of tonight had been initially proposed, because Tobirama wanted to make absolutely sure that he knew. 

(Perhaps he has not forgotten. Perhaps he _does_ know. Perhaps he simply has better things to do than attend the little birthday dinner date Tobirama had worked so hard to set up for the two of them. 

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Somehow, it’s _worse_ than the idea of him just being careless with his time.)

It’s in his calendar, too. In _their_ calendar, the calendar they share, the one they have together because they’re a couple, the one that has Tobirama’s five-day research binges neatly blocked out in bright blue and Madara’s much less demanding ten-hour workdays in pale red.

He does have a grant to work on. He could do that. It’s not like there’s absolutely nothing he can pass the time with.

Madara might be home any moment, though. He could be pulling into the driveway and barreling through the door at literally any second, and what would he say if he caught Tobirama with his laptop open on an evening where they’d both promised to turn their various devices off and just spend time with each other?

He’s not mad. He’s _not._ He’s a grown-ass man and a published researcher and a scientist, and he knows statistics, is more than capable of recognizing trends and patterns when he sees them, is almost certainly right when he thinks that Madara is out late (very late. Almost an hour past their rendezvous late.) because Madara is with Anija.

Anija who Tobirama _adores,_ Anija whose happiness matters more to him than perhaps anything else on the planet besides, of course, Madara’s happiness, Anija who is single right now because Mito has a bizarre romance schedule that only allows her to date men for six months of the year.

Tobirama had been helping him pick out date ideas anyway, because it’s 24 December and they only have a handful of days left until January, when Mito will put her current girlfriend on hold and get back with Hashirama until July.

(It’s 24 December. Tobirama blew nearly all his savings on the ring in an incredibly irresponsible financial decision that had prompted his accountant call him in a panic, but he still made sure to get Madara some flawlessly wrapped birthday presents, carefully prepared with his interests and hobbies in mind. There’s a fully functional refurbished koto, a brace of kunai that he’d jokingly put in a barber’s kit, and the adoption papers for a little black kitten named _Soot Sprite,_ a little black kitten who’d caused Madara to literally start crying when they’d seen her on the rescue website, a little black kitten that they were going to practice being parents to, a little black kitten that one day might have had human siblings to meow and claw at.)

Tobirama checks his phone again; surely all of his wallowing and despair must have taken up at _least_ fifteen minutes—

—but it’s only 6:39.

He’s not sure whether to screech and rip his hair out because it’s been barely a minute or thank every god he knows of that Madara didn’t actually waste another quarter hour doing whatever the hell he’s doing. 

(Hashirama is what he’s doing.

Tobirama isn’t _stupid._

It’s Hashirama. It always has been, for Madara.)

Whatever the hell he’s doing…

_Ah._

If he’s so absorbed in his work that he’s chosen to completely blow off his own birthday dinner, then Tobirama will be a fantastic, thoughtful, caring boyfriend and bring the dinner to him, damn whatever the office rules are about food and candles and seducing the Chief of Police. 

…Madara took the car, though. Tobirama can’t drive. He’s tried, _oh,_ he’s _tried,_ but he’s hopeless behind a driver’s wheel, and apparently, he speeds like he’s trying to invent teleportation – like Tobirama would ever need the assistance of a _vehicle_ to teleport, bah – and that’s considered _unsafe_ and also _illegal._

Walking it is, then. He’ll get a good workout in the snow, at least, and it’s not like he isn’t blessed enough to have functional legs.

Tobirama sends a short email to Soot Sprite’s current foster family expressing his vehement apologies, but he won’t be able to take her home on Saturday like he’d planned, shoves his socked feet into his good winter boots, and wraps himself up in his giant fur-collared blue coat, the one that is an ‘atrocity that should be burned’ and ‘the most fucking hideous thing I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, Tobirama, seriously, it’s _bad’_. With the addition of a hat to cover his ears and a little tub for the inarizushi, almost definitely cold by now, he’s ready.

It turns out that the blizzard is monstrous and that walking all the way to the police station is more than likely a death wish, but Tobirama is nothing if not determined, and he locks the door behind him as he goes. Madara has the keys, and he won’t be going home without Madara.

Depending, of course, on the assumption that Madara wants to go home with him at all.

Tobirama is cold, suddenly, more so than he can ever remember being in the past, and he clutches his container of inarizushi to his chest because he’ll be damned before he lets go of the food he made with such painstaking effort for his boyfriend, the boyfriend who didn’t even bother to _text_ and say that he’d be late or that he was busy or that he just wouldn’t be coming, the boyfriend who has been all but obsessed with his brother since they’ve known each other.

He put a lot of work into that, and inarizushi is Madara’s favorite food; the odds are that he’ll be happy to see Tobirama if he comes bearing inarizushi, even if he doesn’t really _like_ Tobirama all that much despite the fact (?) that he loves him, even though they fight and bicker and argue every time they interact, even though… 

…Oh. He’s here.

It’s 6:43, and it’s a twenty-five minute walk from Tobirama’s apartment to the police station.

He shakes the snow off Madara’s dinner and walks into the blessedly warm front office, where he can see Shisui and Itachi sitting in the same chair at the reception desk.

“Oh, Dr. Senju!” Shisui chirps, recognizing him from all the times Madara’s had him arrested and brought in for being an asshole, “good evening! I thought you would be busy tonight?”

“No,” says Tobirama, because he’s been planning this for months now, and it’s practically public knowledge at this point that he was taking tonight off. Shisui is a secretary and a nosy little bastard besides – shouldn’t he _know_ that? “Madara’s in, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, the mayor went back there some time ago and I’m pretty sure he’s been distracted ever since.”

“Okay,” says Tobirama, plastering on his best mask of indifference, paying no attention to the way his stone heart shatters into a hundred thousand different pieces. Hashirama and Madara are both very busy men, and he’s sure that there are any number of things they could be doing in his office that aren’t of an inappropriately intimate nature.

He moves to join them, belatedly realizing that he should have had the foresight to pack enough food for three, when Shisui stops him apologetically, dark eyes darting from the elevators that lead to Madara’s office to Tobirama’s icy face and back again. “Oh, oh, Dr. Senju, you can’t go back there, Chief Uchiha only takes visitors by appointment.” 

A fact Tobirama already knew. “You just said that my brother wandered up there a while ago. Did he have an appointment?”

Shisui makes an awkward face, sweat beading on his brow as he squirms beneath the laser focus of Tobirama’s glare. “Uh, no, but you’re not the mayor, Dr. Senju. Your brother is.”

He understands suddenly, the realization dawning on him. “You’re saying that I don’t have the clearance to see my boyfriend right now?”

“Uh, yes, sir, that’s correct.”

He considers punching Shisui, but the kid is just the messenger, and he’s beginning to look as if he’d rather be anywhere but here, mediating the unending drama of the Senju-Uchiha love triangle that shouldn’t exist because two of its members are already in a dedicated, committed, _monogamous_ relationship, and he simply tightens gloved hands around the box of inarizushi.

“If you could tell him that I’m here, and that I brought him dinner, that would be greatly appreciated.” 

“Yes, Dr. Senju, I’ll get right on that.”

Tobirama sheds his winter wear until he’s standing in the lobby in his dark gray suit, the one with the black shirt and the blue silk tie, the one that he almost never wears because it’s too fancy and expensive for practically every occasion.

He takes a seat, inarizushi settled protectively in his lap.

It’s going to be a while.


	2. no other version of me, II

He wakes to the sensation of thick hair brushing against his cheeks and an apology murmured into the corner of his mouth, and unconsciously, unknowingly, instinctively he kisses back, opening his eyes to the sight of his favorite person. 

Madara looks tired and _sad,_ older than his thirty-four years, and without thinking Tobirama reaches out to tuck a stray strand of wiry black hair behind his boyfriend’s ear and cup his cheek in his hand.

“Morning,” he croaks, and Madara’s face creases into something sullen and miserable, and immediately his heart begins to sink, because he’s somehow done something wrong, _again,_ and maybe he’s chased his love off for good this time, away into the arms of Anija—

“Oh, pet,” Madara whispers, guiding their heads together until their foreheads touch, “oh, I’m so _sorry,_ baby, I didn’t realize it was getting so late. The clock in my office broke and I thought I fixed it but – never mind, you don’t want excuses.”

Late?

Ah.

_Right._

“Ah,” Tobirama says, the fog of exhaustion lifting from his mind as the evening’s events come flooding back to him, “right.”

Madara flinches away from the words like the sound of his voice is a physical blow, and despite himself, despite the little voice in the back of his mind whispering for him to be a good, understanding boyfriend, a caring, empathetic partner—

The clock on the back wall reads _9:15._

Their date was scheduled to begin three and a half hours ago.

“We,” Tobirama says, voice stiff with a frosty fury, “are going to get in the car. We are going to call my brother. And the two of you are going to explain what the _hell_ you were doing for so long that took precedence over the birthday date that we’ve been planning for _months_ now.”

Madara’s eyes go wide and alarmed, and he jerks back and away from him as he stands, practically vibrating in his anxiety. “No, no, you _can’t,_ it’s – it’s – you can’t know what we were up to!”

Tobirama throws his scarf around his neck and tries to keep his breath from shaking on his next inhale. “May I ask _why?_ Were you doing something—”

_Madara drinking himself silly at Hashirama’s birthday party, face flushed and eyes bright and lips shiny red from where he’d been kissing his best friend on a dare from Tōka._

_Hashirama at Tobirama’s graduation party, slinging an arm around Madara’s shoulders and snorting and giggling as the two of them lean into each other with a casual intimacy that Tobirama has never known from anyone, most certainly not his boyfriend._

_Madara getting up, delight sparkling in his eyes as he spots Hashirama enter the restaurant where he and Tobirama had been having one of their increasingly rare dinner dates. He rushes over without a second thought, leaving his food unattended, and Tobirama pays for the both of them and goes home as soon as he spots his brother and his boyfriend laughing and arguing over an appetizer for two that hadn’t been there five minutes earlier._

_Hashirama as a child, bouncing home with a scraped knee and a bursting heart and the news that he’d just found the super best friend who he wants to spend the rest of his life with._

“—incriminating?”

He can hear Madara’s breath hitch, can see his throat bob. “What? Of course not. Why would you assume that?” He flings around the word _assume_ like Tobirama is making a wild accusation, like his doubts aren’t rooted in tens if not hundreds of past instances where Madara had neglected him in favor of Hashirama, like _he’s_ the one in the wrong here. 

_Tobirama and Mito, standing outside the bar and waiting for their boyfriends to leave. They smoke and chat and worry for two and a half hours before Madara and Hashirama stumble out in each other’s arms, still singing off-tune karaoke, both of them drunk off their asses and still thinking of the other before everything else._

“…There’s been a precedent,” is what he says instead of _Why don’t you love me anymore?_

“I just want to make sure that you’re both alright,” is what he says instead of _Don’t you **see** how lonely I am?_

“I’m only worried about you, Madara,” is what he says instead of _When did you stop caring about me and how did I not notice?_

It occurs to him that there’s a possibility that Madara never loved him at all. It occurs to him that Hashirama is straight, or at least hasn’t ever dated men. It occurs to him that there’s a possibility that Madara only ever agreed to be with him because Hashirama wouldn’t have him. 

Something in the pit of his stomach just – _withers._

Madara’s mouth tightens into a thin white line and his eyebrows draw together. He’s not nervous anymore, not anticipatory, not even guilty; that’s his angry face, his irritated face, his _Tobirama-forgot-to-do-the-dishes-again _face.

It occurs to him that sometimes, people fall out of love. Sometimes relationships just don’t work. Sometimes, no matter the intention, no matter the feelings, couples break up. 

Sometimes Madara’s eyes slip past Tobirama entirely as he turns to look for Anija. Sometimes Madara texts the wrong number _I love you._ Sometimes Izuna will look at him with a pity that is entirely unwelcome, as if he can see their relationship falling apart, and perhaps he can.

Perhaps the cracks and faults are not so invisible and insignificant as he once thought. 

“Tobirama,” Madara says, voice low and hurt, “are you angry?”

_Mito’s violet eyes narrow at their partners as the two men get up and go to the bar for more drinks. Tobirama has to pretend not to notice the way they sit in each other’s laps and sip from the same glass._

_“I can’t come tonight,” Madara murmurs apologetically, crawling out of bed and beginning to put his clothes back on. “I’m sorry, koibito, something came up, and Hashirama can’t be trusted to be out in public alone without making a total fool of himself.”_

_Distracted hands wrapped loosely around his own, slipping out of his hold as Anija enters the room with his usual vivacity. Madara goes up to greet his friend with what is, for him, a truly excessive amount of cheer and good will, and Tobirama sits in the booth they’d claimed for their date, the taste of wine suddenly bitter on his tongue._

Three and a half _hours._ Closer to four, if Tobirama’s being entirely honest.

“Of course not,” Tobirama is quick to disclaim, forcing his frustration and his loneliness and his jealousy down, down, down until he can hardly feel it himself, ignoring the knowledge that doing such a thing won’t make things better, but worse. “You’re here now, aren’t you? Come on, let’s go. It’s dark out and I’m tired.” 

He doesn’t point out that he spent a whole day waiting and preparing for the arrival of a man who wouldn’t be coming. He doesn’t say that he spent hours badgering Mito into teaching him how to cook Madara’s favorite foods. He doesn’t talk about Soot Sprite, the kitten who may soon be Tobirama’s only companion. 

Madara’s dark eyes are fixated with unerring accuracy on his face, and for a moment he thinks he’s about to be called on his bullshit, but then he remembers that his boyfriend doesn’t care enough about him to call him on his bullshit, and all Madara says is, “I’m sorry, anyway. Can we just go home and forget about it?”

“…I suppose so.”

“Ah, thank you so much for understanding, koibito.” The endearment is said with the affection Madara might reserve for stepping in dog shit or taking out the trash or the concept of taxes, and Tobirama’s blood goes cold, because he remembers a time when that word was spoken with soft, worshipful reverence. “Let’s head on out to the car, now, hmm? I’m sure you’re eager to get back to bed.” 

A drop of lube trickles down Tobirama’s thigh. He _had_ been quite eager to go to bed with Madara, so eager that he’d prepared himself beforehand, not thinking that so many hours would pass before even seeing his boyfriend.

“Alright,” he says, perfectly plain and unargumentative, and Madara doesn’t notice the way his tone is undercut with stainless steel. “Let’s go.”

They sweep out into the December evening without any more words exchanged between them, and as Tobirama climbs into the passenger’s side of the car, Madara pauses for a moment, taking out his phone and doing something with it, the brightness of its screen shining on his face.

Probably texting Anija or something in that vein.

He’s not given much time to fume or mope about it, because in moments Madara is there in the driver’s seat, starting up his beloved minivan before ripping out of the parking lot with a dangerous irreverence for speeding and traffic safety laws. There’s hardly anyone else on the road with them and he’s the Chief of Police anyway; if Tobirama brought it up, that would only be another needless argument. They have enough of those already without him adding to the number. 

They have enough arguments already without him getting so worked up over what should have been a predictable absence, given Madara’s track record. He’d been reminded, had set alarms, had _promised_ Tobirama he’d be there and on time to boot, and he hadn’t, but—

_“Maybe,” Hashirama says, leaning over the table with a conspiratory gleam in his eye, “We should get married, Madara!”_

_Tobirama chokes on his whiskey. Beside him, Madara doesn’t appear to be any less shocked._

_“What the hell are you saying, moron? We’re not together!”_

_“Oh, come **on,** you know it took forever to get that civil rights bill signed into law, and what better to celebrate it with than a wedding between two of the most prominent government officials in the city? It would be a powerful point!”_

_Tobirama suddenly feels ill. He stands to leave, and Madara doesn’t seem to notice, busy as he is with yelling at his best friend for being an idealistic idiot._

_He passes Mito bringing in dinner as he swans out the front door, and he doesn’t need to offer any kind of excuse. She takes one look at the expression on his face and lets him go._

—it was unrealistic for Tobirama to expect that he’d come and be somewhat punctual about it, looking back. This is not another broken promise so much as it is another nail in the coffin of their relationship, another reason to walk away and move out and not look back, for the preservation of his own heart if nothing else.

He turns his head to examine Madara, face cast in gold and orange by the streetlights as he drives them back to the apartment. In profile, it’s hard not to notice just what a stunningly handsome man he is, with the noble slope of his nose, the pinkness of his pretty mouth, the sharp line of his jaw and chin.

Sometime long ago, Madara would have been looking back.

The anger leaves him in a sudden rush of breath, leaving him feeling lost, deflated, lesser. It’s unreasonable for him to be so upset. He’s not _stupid._ He should have known that Hashirama would be up to something, and that Madara would prioritize that something over whatever plans he’d previously had with Tobirama. It’s _common sense._

It’s common sense.

He turns his head back to mash his cheek against the window, looking out into the dark, ice-coated streets of Konoha. He doesn’t notice Madara’s eyes flicker over his form, noting his frown and his dejected posture and the exhaustion in every line of his person, noting his distress. Gloved hands tighten around the steering wheel with a creak of leather, and Tobirama doesn’t bother to look up. He simply doesn’t have the energy to pull himself upright and lean over just to see more evidence that Madara doesn’t love him anymore.

They arrive back at the apartment after a twenty-minute stretch of silence that feels like it lasts hours, and Tobirama unlocks their door, shuffling inside with a yawn as he kicks his boots off and unwinds his scarf. The lights flicker on, and he stares around their living room at the decorations he’d put up for Madara’s birthday, the neat stack of presents on the coffee table, the signs of his meticulous planning and arduous labor clear throughout their home.

He ignores it all and the aching in his chest to make a beeline for their bedroom, stripping off his outerwear as he goes, too tired to bother hanging it up.

Behind him, Madara takes in the sight of the celebration he’d missed to go do whatever it is he does with Hashirama when the two of them are alone together, and something cracks.


	3. no other version of me, III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of yall wanted to see tobi + mads break up and that wasn't originally in my plan but i think it is necessary. i wont say whether they get back together or not for now; that's up to you to draw your own conclusions. in the event that they do, their relationship will be very different from what it was, much healthier and less unrequited, not to imply that madara doesn't love tobirama, but he just didn't reciprocate his feelings in a way that let tobirama know he was actually cared about

“Tobirama?”

The sound of Madara’s voice, tentative and sorrowful, makes Tobirama go still beneath the sheets. If he’s coming back to apologize, it’s too little too late. He’s burned that bridge, rather enthusiastically and without regret, just as he’s burned so many others.

“Tobira? You’re back here, aren’t you? I can see you.”

“No you can’t,” Tobirama says mulishly, curling tighter into the futon. “Tobirama isn’t here right now. Try again later.”

_Try again never._

There’s a sigh, and then the familiar warmth of Madara settling onto the bed beside him. Hands come out to pet at his hair – once a familiar, welcome gesture of affection that Tobirama would have leaned into with a purr, now something that hasn’t happened in months, since Tobirama’s own birthday in February – but he smacks them away without turning to look at his boyfriend. He’s simply not in the mood for gentle, loving touches right now. The mockery that would make of their crumbling relationship might break him altogether, and without Madara there to pick up the pieces, who’s to say that he could ever recover?

“Tobira,” Madara tries again, softer, cajoling. “Koibito, can you sit up and face me? I think we need to talk. There’s been a misunderstanding.” 

“Has there.”

The hands return, smoothing over his shoulder. He wants to relax into the touch, wants to let the tension bleed out of his body and lean into Madara’s hold – he has to take what he can get when it comes to affection, nowadays – but the incessant ticking of the clock in the quiet of their apartment, the polar vortex beneath Tobirama’s breastbone, the way Madara had acted when Tobirama asked what he was doing…

He shrugs off the fingers and pulls the covers tighter over his body.

“I – yes, and if you’d just let me _explain,_ everything would be alright-!”

“It _wouldn’t,_ but I wouldn’t expect you to understand why.”

He can practically feel Madara’s bemused scowl burning into the base of his skull, and his boyfriend makes a frustrated noise, probably fisting his hands in that beautiful dark hair and tugging viciously in the way he does whenever he’s upset and losing an argument. “Tobirama, beloved, you know I would never hurt you—”

_So why have you,_ Tobirama wants to scream in his face. _Why did you decide to be with me at all if I don’t matter enough to you for you to bother spending time with me, even when we plan for it._

He keeps his silence. He’s owed an explanation. It won’t fix anything, won’t paper over the gaping cracks in their partnership, but it’s the least Madara owes him, after tonight. All those other instances of being left behind – those Tobirama could swallow down, those he could understand, or at least pretend to. Anija has an inexplicable gravity about him that draws in even the most resistant of people, and he can hardly blame Madara for wanting to be involved in his best friend’s life – they’re so busy, all three of them, that they hardly get a free moment to spend with each other, and he’s long since used to sharing his intimate boyfriend time with his brother.

This, though?

Not even a day ago Tobirama would think what he’s considering to be worse than blasphemy, total heresy. Not even a day ago things were _okay,_ or at least bad in such a way that the badness could be ignored. Not even a day ago he remained totally devoted to Madara, and to some extent he still is – his love is not easily earned, but once it has been given, there is no taking it back, and _oh,_ does Tobirama love that man with the entirety of his being, with everything he is – but now he cannot ignore the faults in their relationship. Now it is impossible for him to run from the truth, to slip shut his eyes and refuse to acknowledge what’s been in front of his face for the past year and a half. 

They’re going to have to break up, and Tobirama is the one who’s going to have to do it. If Madara is the one to dump him instead of the other way around, he’ll be totally devastated, completely unable to piece the shards of himself back together, but if he exercises his own agency and leaves of his own free will, then at least he can pretend that he’s somewhat alright. He’s an independent being. He doesn’t _need_ Madara.

(He needs Madara. He needs him like he needs to breathe, needs to eat and drink and take shelter from the elements. Most organisms have roughly five basic needs, but Tobirama has a sixth, and that sixth is currently leaning over him, bangs falling into his eyes and broad shoulders squared and body practically radiating misplaced concern.)

“—you know I would never hurt you, not intentionally, and I understand that you’re upset – you have every right to be, and I reacted _poorly_ earlier – but can’t we just have an open, honest discussion? We need to, and I don’t want to go to sleep with you angry at me.”

Tobirama supposes that there’s no other way around it. They need to split up sooner rather than later and now is good enough a time as any. If he keeps putting it off, it will become harder and harder to force himself away until the point where it’s virtually impossible, and then—

He rolls upright, not quite facing Madara but not looking away either. “Alright.”

There’s a sigh of relief. “Thank you, koibito, thank you. Can I begin?”

“Fine,” Tobirama says, and the word almost catches in his throat, but he manages to get it out sounding relatively normal. 

Madara shuffles them around until they’re facing each other properly, taking hold of his hands and staring into his eyes with such earnest intensity that Tobirama’s chest aches. “It’s entirely my fault that we haven’t spent much time together lately. I know that we’ve been very busy over the past month, me with the rush of cases and you with your research grants, but I haven’t been neglecting you for no reason, I promise. It doesn’t excuse what I’ve done and it doesn’t heal your hurts, but I swear to you that I’ve only been working towards _us.”_

He swallows and breaks eye contact. He can’t bear to look at him. “And what does Anija have to do with _us?”_

“Well, I was going to ask him to be my best man.”

Tobirama’s heart stutters to a stop in his chest. That could not have possibly just happened. It could _not._

He turns his head mechanically until he’s looking back at Madara, and the man has procured a small red-black velvet-coated box from _somewhere,_ and oh, no, he’s popping it open, and inside— 

—inside is a platinum engagement ring encrusted with sparkling white gems that Tobirama has a sinking feeling are diamonds. It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, and surely it must have cost Madara a small fortune – the gods know that Tobirama’s been ripping his hair out over the expense of the ring he’d bought Madara, back before he realized that what they had was irreparable. The glitter of the diamonds and the gleam of the platinum seem almost blinding in the low light of their bedroom, and suddenly, he’s almost violently nauseous, swaying in his seat, and Madara is there, _why is Madara there,_ doesn’t he know that Tobirama doesn’t _want_ him here right now—

One strong, thickly muscled arm slips around his shoulders to stabilize him, and he’s forced so close to his boyfriend that their noses are nearly touching, so close that he can feel heat of Madara’s breath and taste the remnants of his spearmint gum, so close that his pretty black eyes are utterly inescapable.

It’s been a very long time since _Madara_ managed to violate Tobirama’s personal space. He’s always been welcome to be as close as he desired, even if he never wanted to be all that close at all, but now the very idea of it is suddenly revolting, and Tobirama’s trying to squirm back, away, out of Madara’s hold, but the ring is thrusted into his face and he’s weak in his shock and it’s the simplest thing in the world for Madara to trap him there and propose to him like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

“Bastard Senju,” he begins, slightly awkward, voice wet with emotion, completely, utterly blind to Tobirama’s glaring panic, “Tobirama, koibito, my love.”

“What are you _doing,_ Madara,” Tobirama whispers, but the arm around his back tightens uncomfortably and he can’t escape.

“Something I should have done a very long time ago. You know that we’ve been dating for almost six years now, that we got together on your twenty-fifth birthday.”

Something he did know. Something that he’d thought Madara had forgotten altogether.

_Gods,_ wasn’t that the happiest moment of Tobirama’s _life, _standing there in the botanical gardens by the fountain with Madara pressed up close to him, kissing sweet and slow and languid, the words _will you be my boyfriend_ the loveliest song he’s ever known. 

Six years ago he would have been faint with delight at the idea of Madara proposing. 

Six years ago, though, Madara _cared_ enough to propose. It’s really only in the past year or so that he’s gotten forgetful and busy and neglectful.

“You know that it’s been a while, now,” Madara continues, voice stilted so barely with his anticipatory anxiety that Tobirama almost can’t hear the change, “and I’ve never once regretted it, you know, not even when we fight. _Especially_ not when we fight.”

Most of their fights end in particularly enthusiastic rounds of make-up sex. Tobirama supposes that he can’t be blamed – they really are compatible, physically.

Shame that that doesn’t seem to be the case emotionally.

“At this point, I don’t think I could bear to imagine a life without you by my side. I’m aware that we’ve been distant, lately, but absence only makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever that bullshit saying is. The point is that I love you, and that I’m never going to stop loving you, and that I want you to marry me.”

_I want you to marry me._

How many times has Tobirama dreamed about hearing those words pass Madara’s lips? How many times has he practiced saying yes? How many times has he imagined the ensuing kiss, deep and loving and fraught with such tense emotion that it leaves them both on the verge of tears?

Such a _shame._

He has to do it now. He has to. He won’t be able to, otherwise, and he’ll be trapped in an engagement to Madara, and then in enough time he’ll be _married_ to Madara, and then there will be no escape whatsoever. Tobirama won’t _want_ to escape. He’ll be happy playacting as Madara’s beloved husband, happy as he can when he knows that the heart of his partner has always belonged to another, happy as he could possibly be, living with the knowledge that he’s married to a man who could care less about his feelings.

Madara sets down the ring and the other hand comes up to cup his face, and he’s jolted back into the moment, eyes shooting open to meet onyx irises framed by those pretty, pretty eyelashes.

“I want you to marry me, Tobirama,” Madara repeats, and it takes all of his self-control to keep from cracking and saying yes.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying until Madara’s face twists into an expression of concern, and then there are fingers wiping tears off his cheeks, hands pressing him into Madara’s chest, wrapping around him so securely that he can pretend for a moment that everything is alright.

Everything is alright. Madara just _proposed_ to him.

“We need to break up,” Tobirama blurts into the crook of Madara’s neck and shoulder, and the warm body beneath him goes statue-still with what might be genuine distress. 

Now that he’s effectively paralyzed his boyfriend, it’s easy enough for him to work his way out of his embrace, easy enough for him to tip his chin up and meet Madara’s wide, shocked eyes, easy enough for him to take a deep, steadying breath and say once more: “We need to break up.”

Madara stares at him. He looks like a kick to the stomach would have surprised him less. Tobirama doesn’t feel all that different, really. He didn’t think he could do it. 

Is he glad that he did?

_“What,”_ Madara croaks, hands going for the ring, like touching it will abruptly remind Tobirama of all the money he spent on it and change his mind. “I – Tobirama – _what?”_

“It’s better for both of us,” he says, and the words feel rote and routine coming out of his mouth, like so much white noise. “I – I think some time apart will make you understand, Madara, and I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. It’s not good for me to be with you any longer. I have to leave.” 

And then, because he _does_ love him, with his whole heart and entire being and then some, he leans in to press a quick kiss to the corner of Madara’s mouth, murmuring _I love you_ into the warmth of his skin even as he stands to go. 

When Tobirama walks out of what was their bedroom, refusing to look back, Madara doesn’t pursue him.


	4. no other version of me, IV

_I think some time apart will make you understand._

The memory of Tobirama’s soft, low voice telling him that they need to spit up makes bile surge up his throat, and with a growl he extinguishes his cigarette. Suddenly, the sensation of tobacco smoke burning in his lungs and esophagus makes him viciously nauseous; there’s no one to scold him for smoking, no one to leave gum and public health pamphlets and nicotine patches all over their apartment (the apartment Tobirama moved out of, the apartment that still smells like his wine and cologne and detergent, the apartment that has Madara seeing phantom ex-boyfriends every time he turns a corner), no one to bash him over the head with a rolled-up newspaper and tell him that he’s going to give himself lung cancer in a tone that manages to be simultaneously acerbic and fond.

“Aniki?” Izuna asks him, alarmed. “Aniki, are you choking? Do you need help-?”

“No,” Madara rasps, smoke spilling off his tongue, the taste of ash and chemical residue thick in his mouth. “There’s nothing – there’s nothing you can help me with.”

At that, the open concern in his otouto’s face shutters closed, and he purses his lips, bemused. “You realize that it’s your own fault, right?”

_Half an hour after Tobirama sweeps out of their home sees Madara sobbing and wheezing into the man’s best suit jacket. He’d left it on the sofa along with his tie and his nice vest and his fucking pocket watch – who has a pocket watch anymore? – and Tobirama never forgets things. He must have been well and truly distraught to leave behind his nicest, most formal suit._

_And Madara is crying into it, getting tears all over the fine dark fabric like the inconsiderate bastard he is. He wants to stop, knows that Tobirama will probably ask for it or send for it at some point and that he’ll have to explain why it’d been used as a handkerchief, but it carries his scent of sea salt and ozone. He can hardly smell it through the mucous clogging his nose, but it’s definitely there, and with a broken wail he buries his face in the jacket, fisting his hands in its cloth and breathing in the latent smell of Tobirama._

_His fingers brush against something hard and boxy in one of the pockets, and without thinking he digs out a little rounded cube, coated in deep red velvet that shimmers in the low lights of the apartment, hinged and—_

_—oh, **no.**_

_Sure enough, when Madara pops it open, there’s a gorgeous silvery ring nestled in a cushion of white silk, and his mind goes blank._

_At some point while he’d still been rebooting, he must have put it on, because when he comes back to himself with horror churning his stomach into a nauseous mess and more fucking tears spilling out of his eyes, there’s a cool weight on his right ring finger, a blurry white band wrapped around the digit._

_It fits perfectly, because of course it does._

_Carefully, delicately, with every iota of control he can muster in his current state, he slips off the ring and tucks it back into its box, closing it with shaking fingers before he hurls the damned thing at the wall with an agonized scream building in his throat and such force that the ring box flies right through the plaster and drywall into the kitchen._

_Clearly, it’s something **he** did. If Tobirama’s words weren’t evidence enough of his feelings, than the engagement ring that had been hidden in his suit jacket certainly is. They were perfectly fine not so long ago. Tobirama was going to ask him to marry him not so long ago._

_And in flawless form, as he always does, immediately and without thought, Madara fucking ruined it._

_He releases his hold on the jacket to stare at the wall and sob so hard that he chokes on his breaths, sob so hard that the world becomes a blur, sob so hard that there’s a real, physical pain in his chest where there might have once been a heart before Tobirama went and ripped it out with seven words and a gentle kiss._

He’d cried out all his tears in the days immediately following his birthday, the night of the incident, arguably the worst time of his life, and all that remains is anger, leashed beneath his chest and clawing at its cage like a confined wildcat.

Madara’s fingers tighten around the remains of his cigarette until it crumples beneath his touch. He breathes, in, out, in, out, reminding himself that he can’t punch Izuna. “Yes.”

He’s able to acknowledge that now, which is progress! Seventy-two hours ago the mere thought of him hurting Tobirama would have caused him to have another breakdown, let alone the thought of him hurting Tobirama enough to push him away entirely.

Izuna arches one slim black eyebrow at his expression, and Madara remembers that it’s not normal to go around looking like one’s world has come to an abrupt, violent, miserable end, even if that’s what’s happened.

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to plaster on a mask the way Tobirama is so good at (is that how he’d managed not to notice? Maybe, but is blaming his beloved’s behavior really what he should be doing right now?) and he doesn’t have the fortitude to respond without crying again, so he just slams his face against the table and moans like a distressed ghost.

Fitting, really, since that’s what he is now.

Izuna is one of Tobirama’s best and only friends, and although he’s Madara’s brother, Tobirama clearly managed to get to him first, and now both he and Hashirama and Tōka and even _Hikaku_ have abandoned Madara in his hour of greatest need.

Really, the only person who’d probably still talk to him about their disastrous break-up is Mito, and Madara vividly recalls vowing to amputate his legs before ever going to speak to her willingly.

“Oh, my _god,”_ Izuna says, exasperated. “It’s really not that hard, Aniki! It doesn’t require that much thought! I don’t know what has you so _confused _about all this unless—”

He stops midway through, and Madara groans into the coffee table.

“…Did you really _never notice?”_

The horror in Izuna’s voice is new and entirely unwelcome, because clearly Madara is in _distress_ and desperately in need of some _kindness,_ perhaps even some _empathy._

“Notice _what?”_ he grumbles, peeling himself off of the wood to meet Izuna’s wide dark eyes with his own dead stare, totally unprepared for the depth of the _disgust_ in his little brother’s gaze.

“I’d tell you if you cared enough to hear it,” Izuna shoots at him, voice filled with a snide shock that Madara really does not need in his life right now. “As it is, I think – you should probably go talk to Hashirama. Bang your skulls together and pray to whatever deity is listening that the friction of your combined two brain cells rubbing against each other generates something remotely close to _understanding,_ and then maybe come back here and try again. I’m not giving you Tobirama’s new number until you get it _all.”_

With that, he swans out of the living room, a clear invitation for Madara to pack his things and leave, and then he’s alone again with nothing but his own misery and the memory of Tobirama walking away from him.


	5. no other version of me, V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm. i think we're gonna finish this out with tobi pov, and maybe a little snippet at the end of madara, bc i just cant get his pov down rn it's just not working for whatever reason

Izuna slips into his office on 8 January bearing coffee and file folders, and Tobirama is still so distraught that he doesn’t notice that the bastard is luring him into a conversation about _emotions_ until it’s already happened.

“Aniki looks like trash,” he announces, setting twenty-four fluid ounces of night-black cold brew down in front of Tobirama’s face so that there’s no way he won’t notice. “You do too, but it’s consolation, I guess. Congratulations on making him more miserable than I’ve ever seen him in my entire life.”

That should feel _good,_ shouldn’t it? Tobirama should be happy that Madara is upset, shouldn’t he? He should feel vindictive satisfaction that he’s not the only one with a heart that aches with such excruciating agony that his turbulent emotions are clear to every person who sees him, right?

He doesn’t. He didn’t want to make Madara unhappy. This was supposed to be good for the both of them, a chance for Tobirama to grow as a person, a chance for Madara to finally get with Hashirama like he’s always wanted to. To hear that he’s actually, genuinely _upset_ means that he _cared,_ and he can’t decide if that makes the entire situation better or worse.

On the one hand, he_ cared!_

On the other, he cared, and he _still_ managed to make Tobirama constantly feel like second-best to his own brother. He still took a hammer to the foundations of their relationship and whacked merrily away until a breath of wind could blow them over. He still got distant, still always prioritized Hashirama, still became thoughtless and careless and generally prickly.

Tobirama stares at the coffee cup with dead eyes, not bothering to honor Izuna with a response. He just doesn’t have it in him to pretend that he’s still a normal human being today instead of a withered husk of regrets and distress.

He doesn’t see his friend’s eyes soften, doesn’t notice anything but the thump-bump of his heart and the whoosh of air in his lungs. Somehow, he’s still living, still breathing, his blood still circulating, even though he feels like a reanimated corpse.

A miracle!

“Tobes,” Izuna sighs, shoving the coffee under his nose until his mouth is pressed against the slotted lid. “Don’t you start having second thoughts, now. It was the right thing to do and you know it. You’re better off without him, and now he can work out that weird obsession with Hashirama without making you feel unloved.”

How does he explain that he can’t spend a second alone in his own head without wondering if he really should have done that? How does he explain that every single interaction between Hashirama and Madara from now until the end of time will always leave him hurting, full of jealousy that he isn’t allowed to feel now since they’re not together anymore, heart bursting with misplaced affection that he cannot share with the man who is no longer his boyfriend? How does he explain that Madara’s continued existence is like a knife to the gut?

Tobirama _needed_ Madara. The man is upset, now, he’s very clearly unhappy, but – he’s going to be just fine. He’ll recover, he’ll move on, he’ll get with Hashirama and forget Tobirama ever existed.

Madara has never needed Tobirama.

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it?

Tobirama _loves _him. Loves him, loves him, loves him, and perhaps there was a point in time where Madara loved Tobirama back.

Distantly he remembers the warmth of feeling familiar with the blustering blaze of Madara’s affections, and the scent of coffee filling his nose is suddenly too vile to endure.

“To- _Tobirama what the hell!_ You bastard, this was a new shirt!”

His hands grip tight like a vice around the now-empty cup and he glares at where Izuna is squawking and cursing and trying to mop up the coffee that had just violently assaulted his person.

He can’t bring himself to care.

What is there to care about, anyways, now that he’s got nothing but the cat and his old room in Mito’s house?

He finds that he can’t bring himself to answer.


	6. no other version of me, VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop here's another one. remember when i said that the rest was going to be solely tobi? yes that was a lie lmao bc i found inspo and dug this back up from the grave

Shisui’s on the phone again, and Madara’s just about to poke his head out of his office and start yelling at the kid to get back to his damn work when what he’s saying actually sinks in, and immediately he’s paralyzed.

“…Oh, Dr. Senju? You really wanted to bring up _that_ mess again?”

Tobirama. Why on _earth_ would Shisui be gossiping about _Tobirama?_ There’s really nothing to it. He suddenly dumped Madara without any explanation whatsoever, Madara was devastated, and he’s since dropped off the face of the earth. He hasn’t even heard about the man in weeks.

Nothing to it.

“Ooh, actually, I heard from one of the detectives the other day that Uncle’s only waited as long as he has out of respect for Dr. Senju, you know, so that he doesn’t insult him? I mean, of course that’s _bullshit,_ since dating someone for over half a decade when you’ve been in love with their brother for more than twice that is, like, the most insulting thing I can think of right now, but…”

Madara freezes, because that makes _no sense,_ but Shisui doesn’t notice that he’s eavesdropping, and whatever conversation he’s having concerning their former relationship continues.

“Hmm, yeah. Maybe I should get him a cake. Like, _Congratulations on finally getting to fuck the Senju you want to_ or something. You don’t think the Publix would do that for me, do you? Will I have to make it myself? You know I’m useless in a kitchen. What? No, I’m not going to debate that with you! I don’t _care_ if they have office sex and I certainly don’t care who tops! It’s Uncle, anyway, obviously, that man has major issues with submission, but – _I don’t want to talk about that, Itachi!_ It’s _gross!_ You’re gross!”

Izuna’s voice rings in his ears, something about Madara and his relationship with Hashirama and a desperate need to understand whatever it is that he’s missing from this story.

He can’t actually go and talk to the man without more information, though, and Shisui seems as good a source as any.

Madara storms out of his office, picks his nephew up by the collar, and wrenches his stupid phone out of his hand, hurling it halfway across the room and ignoring the kid’s noisy protests. He tosses Shisui into his office proper, slams the door shut behind them, and fixes his secretary with his most menacing glare. _“What_ exactly do you think you were doing there?”

Shisui stares, dark eyes wide. “Being traumatized by Itachi?”

Madara snarls, crossing his arms over his chest and stalking closer so that he can loom more effectively. “That shit with Tobirama and Hashirama and I. Explain yourself.”

Poor young Shisui, clever and witty and beloved by many. How unfortunate that Madara will be forced to fucking _murder_ him if he keeps on gawking like that, expression shifting from confusion to surprise to something resembling _anger—_

_You should probably go talk to Hashirama._

“Don’t pretend like you don’t _know,_ Uncle, just come on out and say it where we can hear already,” Shisui snaps, hauling himself to his feet and standing up to Madara for the first time in recent memory. “Everybody knows you were only with Senju Tobirama because his brother wouldn’t have you. You’ve already traumatized that man enough with the whole pretending to love him when all you really wanted from him was proximity to the mayor. Waiting to actually get together with Mayor Senju now that you’ve finally split is just salt in a festering wound.”

The silence is oppressive.

For once Madara finds himself speechless, because for all that Shisui is almost entirely wrong, there was a point in time where he looked at Hashirama and wished they’d been something more. There was a point in time where he barely knew his dear Tobirama existed – he already had a Senju in his heart, why would he need another? – and there was a point in time when he’d fantasized about punching Mito in the face so hard that her perfect nose was inverted for the insult of being intimate with a man he saw as _his._

He can’t put a finger on exactly when he accepted that Hashirama and he were simply not meant to fit together that way. He can’t recall ever realizing that he could finally think about that man and not want him, just impossibly, just a little. He remembers fucking an irate Tobirama into unconsciousness and then showing up at Hashirama’s door utterly wasted, flushed and complaining with his cock still warm from the hot vice of Tobirama’s perfect ass when he forced that stupid tree’s face to his in a violent alcohol-flavored kiss.

“—_Uncle!”_

“What,” Madara croaks, turning his attention to his nephew only to discover that Shisui somehow obtained his phone. “What – brat, what the hell are you doing with that, I’ll have you arrested—”

“I’ve set you up a meeting with the mayor,” Shisui says sweetly, only yelping a little when Madara tackles him and reclaims his phone. “Akimichi’s Bistro, the one on S. Kage Street, tomorrow at 6:30. Be there or forever wallow in your repressed emotions, Uncle.”

With that he slips out of the office before Madara can yell at him anymore, and he’s left collapsed on the carpet, mind buzzing, wondering what the hell he’s going to do now.

Apparently, he’s going to talk to Hashirama, he thinks, looking at his phone, screen bright with unread notifications. God willing, he'll have been near his brother lately, and then maybe Madara will get to smell his beloved's shampoo and cologne and the faint fog of formaldehyde that always clings to his sweaters even after washing.

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is going to get very spicy lads. even spicier than it has been. i need to add 'near death experiences' as a tag. please everyone thank lulu for continually encouraging my madness and also leave a comment if you liked or didnt like or just have something you want to say to me! :-)


	7. satisfaction brought it back, I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no other version of me isn't finished i just thought this was adorable and wanted to share

Tobirama can’t honestly say that he’s _surprised._ At this point, even Hashirama is used to the frequent, varied side effects of his constant experimentation with chakra. It hasn’t kept him from worrying incessantly to the point where Tobirama occasionally has to enlist Mito to distract him so that he can actually get some damn work done, but when it comes to some of the stranger vestigial symptoms that come from working with developing jutsus, he generally doesn’t lose his mind unless there’s some kind of injury.

That incident with Mito and the prototype Hiraishin was certainly slightly traumatic for all involved, but after he’d gotten over the horror of being all but ravaged in public by his own anija, even Tobirama could admit that it was funny.

(Hashirama had not agreed. When Mito is unusually irritable or Tobirama unusually good-natured, he still makes them confirm that they’re in their own bodies, like they would be eager to repeat that experience, even for the sake of pranking him. She’s still somewhat horrified by Tobirama’s idea of a healthy lifestyle, and he himself hasn’t really recovered from the absolute, debilitating _hell_ of Uzumaki menstrual cramps amplified tenfold by Nine-Tails chakra. Izuna has given him near-fatal stab wounds that hurt less than whatever the fuck _that_ was. On the other hand, she and Tōka seem to be pleased that he’s been duly humbled by his brief taste of the monthly agony that defines the female reproductive system.)

No, Tobirama isn’t shocked when the smoke clears to reveal that his lab is much, _much_ larger than it had been – or that he is much, much _smaller._ It would take something truly preposterous to slip him up at this point.

It’s just that he typically retains _opposable thumbs_ when his testing goes sideways, or at least a body that is larger and weighs more than a fucking paperweight. He’s been able to remain self-sufficient without the convenience of human dexterity before, but he’s never had to do so while also being no bigger or heavier than a hedgehog.

This form isn’t entirely unpleasant, though. Tobirama’s small paws are nimble and his gait is swift enough that the abrupt shortness of his legs doesn’t drive him immediately insane. His thick white pelt is warm and comfortable, so he won’t have to take care of thermoregulation like he would if he’d become ectothermic. His tail is stubby, but his sight and hearing and sense of smell are exponentially sharper than those of a human.

Tobirama wobbles around his desk until he’s located the silvered looking-glass he uses as an observation tool.

…It also doesn’t hurt that he’s _adorable._

White Demon. He considers the title as he examines his appearance, testing the range of motion of his new body. His ears are more expressive, his frame more flexible, his tiny size and increased agility all traits which with he can find no fault.

Tobirama presses one of his miniature paws against the glass; its surface is smooth and cold beneath his pads, which aren’t so sensitive that he’ll risk damaging his feet when he leaves to find a way to revert himself to normal.

That turns out to be easier said than done.

As a human, Tobirama is nearly six feet tall. As he is now, from nose to tail-tip, he’s only a dozen centimeters long, smaller than a child’s kunai and less than half as massive. His desk, constructed to be easily accessed by an adult person of above-average height, is high off the ground. The distance between Tobirama’s current perch and the floor is more than ten times his current size.

He’s seen the Uchiha ninneko and his own snow leopard summons jump from seemingly impossible heights and land feather-light on their feet. Without proper form and chakric assistance, he would shatter his legs if he fell from a proportionate distance, and it wouldn’t even matter, because he’d be too busy being dead to care.

Tobirama could probably manage to reach the floor without disaster, but he would have no way to open the door, locked and sealed to keep any accidents from spreading. He’ll need another way out, and it’s as he’s trotting along his desk that he finds one.

A permanent one-way Hiraishin portal, tucked into the corner of the room so that it isn’t activated accidentally, a means of escape from the laboratories should he ever find himself in a situation like this. It will take him to his office, which hasn’t been science-proofed and will be much easier to navigate.

There’s still the matter of reaching the ground, though, and finding some way to channel enough chakra to transport himself to freedom.

Tobirama is just gearing himself up for the blind leap to the floor when his ears twitch and rotate, drawn towards the front of the room by the sound of the door being opened, his preventative measures easily overcome.

He twists around to see Hashirama step into his space, smelling so strongly of pine and petrichor that Tobirama wrinkles his nose in an effort to dampen the scent.

Anija has, through a great deal of trial-and-error, learned that the cardinal rule in any active laboratory is to _not touch anything,_ and although Tobirama can see the way his fingers flex as his eyes flicker from scroll to equipment to meticulous records of innumerable projects, ongoing and past, he’s able to keep his hands to himself.

“Tobi? It doesn’t look like I’m interrupting anything…? Tōka returned from her mission early, so Mito’s throwing together a little dinner to celebrate! I’m here to let you know, but…”

Tobirama scrambles in his effort to launch himself across the desk into Hashirama’s field of vision, but Anija has been taught too well, and the first thing he does when he comes to the conclusion that Tobirama himself is absent is carefully approach the piles of research and ink bottles and brushes on his desk. He hangs over the remains of today’s experiment with a furrow in his brow, murmuring under his breath, only tearing his attention away when he’s assured himself that nothing catastrophic will happen if he doesn’t immediately tend to the applied theories.

Once he does, though, it takes him less than a fraction of a moment to find Tobirama sitting on the edge of his desk and glaring as effectively as he can, letting out a reproachful mew when Hashirama squeals in delight and rushes over.

“Oh, _this_ is what he’s been so secretive about! I knew he wouldn’t just ignore that mommy cat nesting in his office! Oh, aren’t you a _darling?_ Hush, hush, no need to hiss and claw, Hashi-oji _loves_ you, little one. I don’t know why otouto felt he had to keep you in hiding, but _ooh,_ too _cute!”_

Tobirama’s mind goes blank, and Anija is able to scoop him up without any real resistance.

He had considered the possibility that someone would come to find him if enough time passed without him communicating anything, and he had considered the possibility of people finding him an adorable little creature in need of love and attention.

He had _not_ considered the possibility that Hashirama would connect the pregnant queen that had taken shelter in his office with a very young kitten stashed away in his laboratories and come to the conclusion that Tobirama had taken the cat into his care and then decided to keep one of her offspring.

Anija’s hands are warm and rough and _giant,_ and Tobirama fits neatly in the dip of one palm, cradled close against his chest with a heartbreaking tenderness.

“Kitty, kitty, precious, pretty kitty! Don’t worry, little one, Hashi-oji will make sure you’re fed and watered and well-groomed while Tobi is busy with wherever the science has taken him this time. We’re going to have so much fun, and I’ll call Madara over, and he’ll bring the ninneko, and then you can have friends! Madara _loves_ cats, and you’re too adorable for him to resist. There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of, kitty-kitty. He’ll probably offer to watch you if otouto doesn’t turn up soon. Won’t that be _wonderful?”_

Yes, Tobirama thinks, needle teeth grinding at the frustration of his claws being too small to break Anija’s skin.

_Wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments make the tobi-kitten a happy little ball of purring and fuzz 👀

**Author's Note:**

> anyway lmao thanx for reading folks yall know i love every single one of you but i wont lie when i say that i love people who comment/kudos just a lil bit more ;-)


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